


Masquerade Under the Light

by calculatingMinutiae



Series: The Ghost of Glimwood Tangle [4]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Developing Friendships, Fae Opal, Fun with Ghost Logic, Gen, Ghost!Allister, Halloween, Male-Female Friendship, Opal is 10 and Allister was 9-going-on-10 before sleeping fifty years, Panic Attacks, Social Anxiety, Young!Opal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:09:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22026853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calculatingMinutiae/pseuds/calculatingMinutiae
Summary: Ballonlea, 1941Opal gives Allister a tour. Allister experiences fifty years' worth of culture shock.AKA: How Allister gets his first mask
Relationships: Onion | Allister & Poplar | Opal
Series: The Ghost of Glimwood Tangle [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576204
Comments: 8
Kudos: 92





	Masquerade Under the Light

**Author's Note:**

> Cover: https://2sp00ky.tumblr.com/post/189952503210/allister-and-opal-head-into-ballonlea-to-explore

He's not sure exactly how he thought he could do this. Hardly brushing the outskirts of the small town, a regular population of fewer than thirty, and he can already feel the chill of nerves down his spine (if only because he expects it to be there; being incorporeal, at least most of the time, has yet to free him from the symptoms of distress he never quite learned to navigate in life.) The dark canopy cover of the Tangle gives way to the blue wash of artificial light mixing with that of the mushrooms that have populated the area for centuries, and it is stunning in both senses of the word.

It's certainly stunned Allister, who has yet to process so much _light_ in one space. For eyes that haven't seen daylight in almost five decades, it's too much. So much he's closed his them, keeping his head tilted towards his feet, dragging along behind an oblivious Opal. Ballonlea has looked this way since she was born, after all, and it isn't anything particularly special, levitating chinchou acting as streetlamps notwithstanding.

"See, the morelull like to wander into town along this path they've carved out," she puts on her best tour guide voice. She hardly pauses to breathe, nothing short of absolutely elated to share every spare detail of her hometown. "I'm pretty sure they have some kind of colony deeper in the woods and we're just seeing the ones who lose their way. Or those are just their stealth op'ratives, come to gather poffins from the gullible who just can't say no to a cute look, don't you think?"

There is no answer. In fact, there is no shadow slinking behind her at all, once she turns to look. He's a good few feet back, one hand out to feel his way around that is, at the moment, predestined to fail.

"Allister!" she calls, meandering back towards the mouth of the woods. "Alli, what's that you're doing, there? You alright?"

The moment she blinks, he's disappeared completely. 

* 

No, see, there is _definitely_ no way he could do this. Interaction was a mistake, existence is a farce, none of this is real, et cetera; it's all an elaborate ruse designed specifically to set off every nerve in his quasi-corporation. It's all too familiar, the feeling of fire freezing under the skin, the cloudiness manifesting just behind the eyes, the kind of sensations that make you forget to breathe altogether for minutes on end. It doesn't matter if it's the people, or the stimulation, or _what_ , all he knows is that, when it gets this bad, he needs to make himself scarce. He needs to hide until it blows over, or risk making a sound. He can't risk complaining, he is not _meant_ to complain, he is _one of the good ones_ worth keeping. 

Thus, why he's run to an old indeedee's burrow in the base of a tree, curled up and pretending that he does not exist. Maybe if he pretends hard enough, it will start being true. Then it'd all be a non-issue.

Unfortunately, pretending too hard is just an invitation for a certain someone to hear how hard it is he's simulating breathing. She knocks gently on the hollow tree, at a loss for what else to do, eventually sitting on a nearby rock. Sinistea hovers next to her.

Not that he's noticed. Not that the world exists outside of this literal hole in the ground, right now. It's compounding, compounding, _compounding_ on itself, a slowly-expanding sponge in his chest that soaks up all of the energy in the fragile frame and weighs it down. He grips both sides of his head, curled up to protect it like there's a storm incoming and it's the only chance he has to avoid being stolen by the winds.

Opal doesn't understand. Opal has never heard of this phenomenon before, such a debilitating state of panic that it hurts to exist. She, in her ignorance and telltale impatience, gently kicks the tree. _Why are you hiding? Come play._

It does not bode well.

Allister, though he lacks physical form at the moment, still retches. More than mentality this state is an affliction, and one that has him coughing up ... _something_ green, which doesn't seem right, and only helps the spread of paralyzing fear. 

Sinistea sloshes its tea in her face, and floats into the den.

"Oi! What's that for, then?!" Opal wipes her face with her skirt, rife with indignation. She has half a mind to challenge sinistea to battle then and there. _For Honor,_ of course, she can't simply _allow_ herself to be so grievously slighted. Why, if Allister weren't crying, she'd— 

She listens. Allister isn't just taking a joke to heart, he's earnestly _sobbing_ and clinging to that little teacup.

Is. Is this a ghost thing? 

She backs a few steps away, quiet like a scheming nickit, piecing together the last several minutes. Right on the city boundary, he'd run for cover. He left her side to... go cry in the woods. And throw up.

Hmm.

_If he really didn't want to spend time with you, he could have just said so?_

No, if it were premeditated, Sinistea would have been with him rather than you. Something made him this upset, something to do with the city, what's really all that different between Ballonlea and the rest of the Tangle? 

Opal may be unfamiliar with anxiety and all of its forms, but that doesn't stop her from getting an idea. 

* 

By the time he pokes his head out of the tree and elected to lay in the grass, Allister has no idea what time it is. Or what year it is, really, squinting up at the far-off lights of glowing mushrooms high above the forest floor. Like stars, almost. He misses stars, he thinks. He should ask Opal if they're still there, somewhere. 

Wait a minute, _Opal—_

He forces himself to sit up, residual dizziness cast aside in favor of looking around frantically. Opal? Where did she go! Weren't the two of you supposed to... 

oh. 

Oh, right. 

He holds his head in his hands. Time passes differently for him now, he knows, but he isn't ready to reconcile just what that means for his friend. Is she alright? Does she even remember him? 

Thankfully, he doesn't have to wonder long. Less thankfully, it comes to light when she waves her hand through the back of his head and into his field of vision. 

"AAH WH, O, Opal?" he lifts his head, looking to _see_ this time rather than nominally turn about.

"Last I checked," she smiles a bit too wide, trying to be Extra Reassuring. 

"You're alright," the words fall like drops of lead.

"Me? Of _course_ I'm alright, ya' ninny. Really I should be asking you, you're the one who's gotten sick." She scoffs a little, turning her nose up, only to very quickly open an eye and see his reaction. She doesn't _actually_ want him to think she's angry.

"... 'm. I've been better," he admits, a hand over one eye.

"Well, maybe these'll help." Opal hands him a pair of mass-produced blackglasses. "They were going to be for Dimple to raise his dark-type moves, but I think that you could use them more."

Allister is in total awe, looking at these strange eyeglasses that have just phased through his hands. Sinistea imbues the pair with some of its ghostly energy, and slaps them on his face.

"I didn't know you could color lenses like this..." he glances around at the now pitch dark Tangle. At least it seems to be helping his head already.

"Why not? They make all sorts of things in Motostoke, I should hardly think sun shades are the peak of human invention." Opal rolls her eyes, offering Allister a hand.

"... Right. O-off we go, then. Y-ou'll have to sh, show me what else is new." He shoots her a crooked, soft little smile, holding Sinistea, and takes her hand.

*

Ballonlea, for a town home to so few, is deceptively large. 

Now that he can look straight ahead without overstimulation gumming up the gears in his brain, Allister actually has a chance to take it all in. It's gorgeous, of course, surrounded by giant glowing mushrooms on every side; some have been converted into housing, others built around and maintained as spectacle in its purest form. The only building on the immediate horizon to stand out is, of course, the Pokemon Center. The red roof betrays its nature before anything else, ivy slowly creeping up the walls to try and reclaim the whole structure for the earth. Humans, ingenuitive bastards they can be, generally build around such a thing, or cut it down. In Ballonlea, however, it seems like the pesky plants are all that's keeping the building tethered to the ground at all. 

Allister is more fascinated by the neon sign at the front and center of the edifice. 

"What, have you not seen a Center before?" Opal calls from a few feet away, only now noticing that Allister is, even after several minutes, still gawking at the entrance.

“No, no, but they don’t look like _this_ ….” Having thoroughly forgotten himself, Allister floats up to inspect the colored tubing. It’s absolutely fascinating. It's beyond anything he’s ever imagined before, growing up in largely rural Stow-on-side (with, not that he dedicates thought to it, swathes of his memory missing. If he’s ever known anywhere else, he isn’t exactly aware of it.)

Opal looks nervously from side to side. Even in Ballonlea, it’s a bit odd for someone to casually decide to levitate. “Allister, c’mon! We’ve had those for ages, there’s much better things out here than that!”

Sinistea floats alongside Allister, if only to act as a cover. Obviously, it's just a matter of Sinistea using its ghostly powers on its trainer. He smiles. _Good Sinistea. A good friend._ Sinistea clinks a toast to itself, which, while endearing, seems inherently incomplete. Allister lightly taps Sinistea’s cup to try and return the gesture. 

How soon he forgets that, when you’re corporeal, _gravity works._

The fall is only a couple of feet, but it scares him enough for the lesson to sink in just as he sinks into the shrubs outside the Center. He makes a mental note to hang onto Sinistea while they’re in town after all. Sinistea, however, chooses to sit on his head instead. 

Opal can’t help but smirk behind a well-placed hand, offering him the other to stand. “You about done? You spent so long looking up, you forgot to look down. I think you’ll like this one, take a look.” She drags him like a ragdoll a few steps back. Before he can protest, he sees exactly what she means.

A small pumpkaboo looks up at the two of them from just outside the Center door. It doesn’t seem alarmed by the commotion so much as mildly irritated. At least, that’s how the interaction seems to go in Opal’s eyes as she watches Allister have a full conversation with the gourd. 

“Really? All day…" Allister shakes his head a little. The pumpkaboo flares its leaves, its lights flickering along as though with purpose. "... Well, that hardly seems fair." He pushes up his sunglasses. "It's not too bad, when you're used to it… ah. That's just the thing, isn't it? Just a moment." 

Opal, seeing Allister back away from the little pokemon, runs up to his side. "So. 'Just a moment' what, Alli? Was it really _talking_ to you?" 

"Oh," he says, looking along the barrier between town and the woods proper. "'Says its trainer asked it to act festive, but there's no good basking light in the Tangle… Pumpkaboo love to soak in the sun…" 

"So you're going to. Bring, it the sun?" Opal looks at him incredulously, noting that he is already trying to dig in the dirt with hands he barely remembers how to operate. Beyond just not remembering, even. The way he carries himself always keeps his hands loose, as though they'd been broken. 

He shakes his head lightly, Sinistea hanging onto a loose strand of hair. "Mushroom…," he says, as though to explain everything. 

Opal, against her better judgement, helps in the digging effort. Then the pulling-it-out-of-the-ground effort, if only as half of a tag-team. 

Allister plunks the bioluminescent mushroom in the soil next to the pumpkaboo, much to its delight. "Of course… oh, really? Thank you," he tilts his head, the pumpkaboo drawing his hand close in the grip of its leaves. A moment later, that hand is full of candy. He pats the small jack-o-lantern, immediately sharing the loot with Opal and speed-walking up the path. 

"Allister, that was amazing!" 

He looks to the ground, kicking the dirt a bit. "...Oh… it's nothing…." After a moment's deliberation and a good scan of the environment, he takes a breath. "Thank you."

"No problem, Alli, 's just a bit of dirt. Gonna take more than that to pull one over on me."

"Well… mostly for telling me about the pumpkaboo." 

"... Oh. You're, welcome? But you saw it for yourself, you've earned your share of the sweets I'd say."

"Right… there's that too, I guess."

"What else is there?" 

"Pumpkaboo act like holding jars for lost souls… the little ones like that usually go after young ones… I know they just have a job to do, b-but..."

Suddenly, without hesitation, Opal grabs Allister's hand. He does not object. 

"Well, you aren't lost. Let's go see more of town, yeah?" she smiles, suppressing the urge to lash out at anything that'd dare hurt _her_ friend. 

"Y-yeah. Let's."

*

It's autumn in Ballonlea. The thing about autumn in Ballonlea, however, is that the landscape looks identical to the way it does in every other season. The only thing to signal the arrival of sweater weather and ubiquitous pumpkin spice is the effort of the residents of this perpetually lush and green forest, and the whole town is fully intent on going _all out_. 

Now that he can really focus on it, streamers and decorations weave between the small cottages lining the main street. Dewpider webs and splashes of orange ribbon wind around the massive mushroom stalks, while more pumpkaboo and trinkets mimicking their shape adorn almost every porch. Opal insists on walking on the side facing the residences, occasionally glaring at one of the little pumpkins while Allister is swept up in the whimsy of everything. 

It isn't so much that magic is real and imbued in this place that gets him. No, he's wandered these grounds for quite some time. The more important, more _fantastical_ thing is that people have set up and made a civilization here, in less than hospitable territory, and _persisted_. They've found a way to harmonize with nature, so to speak, passing hattrem calm and ponyta daring to even appear in the distance. Though they may poke fun at their own mortality in this most unabashedly supernatural of seasons (Allister can’t help but wince seeing a mock-skeleton hanging from a massive tree root. He looks over his free hand, part of him morbidly curious, the rest deciding to smother that impulse handily and without consideration. It doesn’t stop the slow creep of existential dread from advancing, of course, but it slows it to the point of breathing at a reasonable pace. It’s particularly lucky that he still doesn’t fully require air in this state. Sinistea less brings him to life than makes him less noticeably dead.), let it be said that if nothing else the people in Ballonlea are resilient. 

But there is plenty more to say; once the pair reach the passageway to the gym, they start to actually see _other people_ milling about town. 

Opal, reactionary she can be, lets go of Allister’s hand almost immediately. Her mother’s gym trainers will never, _ever_ let her hear the end of it if she’s caught _holding hands with a boy,_ halfway to picking out a wedding gown as Opal feigns any more than mild aesthetic interest, only semi-looking forward to cake. Hmm, cake. She’s already decided that she simply _has_ to have a gigantamax alcremie before even _imagining_ the possibility of getting married, thank-you-very-much, and it is going to be _the_ Pink-est thing you have ever, ever seen. 

She explains this to Allister, complete with accentuating twirls to get the point across, and Allister simply. Listens. She likes that, about him. He listens before he speaks.

“... Like, a strawberry alcremie? …Or ruby cream….”

“No, no, it could be salted, for all I care, Pink isn’t just a colour it is a _state of mind,_ ” she points ahead of them with both hands, glancing at Allister to see if he understands.

He doesn’t, but he nods anyway. “So… having a Pink alcremie look pink is just a bonus, then.”

“ _Exactly._ See, it’s not that _hard, I_ don’t know why mum still won’t get it!” 

“Maybe someday… you’re just ahead of your time.”  
  
Opal shrugs. She’s been ignoring the body language of her compatriot, for a while, and thus the way he’s tugging on his jacket. It’s only about half a century out of date, after all, though it does make for a good idle distraction. Pulling on his sleeves, keeping his head down, particularly covering his face with his collar when others push their way past, she starts to think he’ll disappear again. “Hey, are y—”

She stops herself, seeing his eyes widen behind the sunglasses when she draws attention to him. Sinistea splashes a little. 

Thinking quickly, she pulls the pair of them into a small shop front. Between the wall and a rack of postcards, there is time and space for calm and quiet. She backs off to idly card through the strange illustrations. 

Several of them depict the expected: lots of pumpkaboo and gourgeist, phantump and trevenant, and entirely too many grimmsnarl. So clichéd, the grimmsnarl, she turns them away from Allister’s view. There are also a shocking amount of odd human-berry hybrids in these paintings, including one riding a seesaw with hatterene and meowth while another contorts in both agony and repose while gets its face carved. 

“Somebody had to draw these…,” says Allister, holding Sinistea in his hands. He seems a little less likely to be thrown back to the winds, at least. “... Imagine that, being your job. All you have to do all day, i-is paint, and you get told ‘o-oh, we want you, you master painter, to m-make us a portrait of hattrem and all, only it’s sitting in a ponyta-less carriage with watmel slices for wheels.’ ” 

“That’s a car,” says Opal, in spite of Ballonlea’s obvious lack of motorways. 

“... A car with w-watmel slices for wheels.” 

Opal giggles, going through about a dozen more. 

One centered on gengar really catches his eye, all purple with silver trim. ‘Haunting license’, it says facetiously. He’s more than happy to rattle off a dozen things wrong with the very notion, since “Gengar don’t haunt… they stalk their prey, like liepards or perrserkers… it’s all part of nature, but people get spooked when it’s them being hunted.” 

He tsk, tsk, tsks, and Opal is bewildered. She does a double take to make certain he’s the same person that was nearly in tears two minutes before, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of Humanity come to visit the gym. 

“Did you already know everything about ghost-type pokemon, or is that just a mystery that unlocks when you pass? Beyond just being able to talk to them, and all.” 

“... That? No, it’s just… a h-hobby I guess… sort of ironic now, isn’t it…” 

She, seeing him start to shuffle nervously, Sinistea back on his head and hands held limp in front of him, does her damnedest to _bring on_ that sparkle she gets in her expression. Genuine admiration mixes with just a touch of exaggerated body language to help get the point across. “Woah… you’re really smart, Allister, you know that?” 

He hides his face behind his hands. Opal can't quite tell if that's a bad sign or not, with him. "... Thanks…." 

"Hey," she stands a little straighter. “Do you want to swing by the gym, with me? I know it’s a lot to take in at once, but it’s a really swell place,” she grins, almost pleading. 

Allister uncovers his face, readjusts the shades, and lightly nods. 

Opal grabs his wrist and bolts out the door with nothing short of elation. 

*

“Hiya, Arlette,” Opal says, as though she is not trying to glide across the foyer with Allister hidden behind her. Arlette merely shakes her head and smiles in such a way that insures the girl that no, she has certainly not seen anything strange around here, whatever could you mean?

Allister cannot help but gawk, for a moment, but not for any reason she would have expected. “Are… are you sure you should be talking to that lady?” He whispers a little too quietly, having to repeat himself behind the costume rack Opal has dragged him to. 

“And why wouldn’t I? Arlette is the nicest, the rest of mum’s gym trainers—”

“She’s a _gym trainer?_ Looking like that? _”_

“Looking, like. What?” Opal exaggerates a disappointed look. She didn’t take him to be judgemental. 

“My mum… t-told me not to even look at ladies who wear th. Paints all over your face?”

“What! Why not?”

“You aren’t supposed to….”

“Well, _every_ lady wears makeup, Allister. It helps people to see you better when they’re far away, and you can make yourself look just how you want. All the adults use it. I would know, I’m getting close! Mum says when I’m sixteen she’ll let me pick out a lipstick, and it’s going to be _incredible_.” Opal twirls in front of a mirror, just imagining what it will be like to be So Grown Up.

Allister tilts his head, only faintly appearing in the mirror at all. He’d never really thought about it. He supposes that now, he’ll never have to consider it.

“Everyone?”

“Of course! Really, Alli, how long have you been away not to at least know _that_?”

“....” Allister, looking harder at the mirror, concentrating, shrugs. He wants to be here. He _wants_ to be here.

The curtain shifts and opens not one foot away, and Allister finds himself jumping through the wall, Sinistea clinking against the glass mirror. 

“Opal, you ought not stay back here long, we have rehearsal tonight.”

“Aww, mum… _okay._ I’ll be quick.”

The curtain closes, and Opal sighs. She’s looking for something specific, and she could have _sworn_ she saw it just the other night….

Allister pokes his head back through the mirror. 

“A-ha!” Opal grins, watching her reflection bounce off of the shiny, smooth ceramic in her hands. “Here it is.”

Allister blinks. “... Yes. It sure is.”

“So, what do you think?”

“... What is it?”

Opal just laughs, taking Sinistea by the handle. “It’s a mask, silly. Sinistea, dear, could you let him see it?”

Sinistea obliges, casting just enough ghostly essence into the mask that the incorporeal Allister can pick it up and inspect it. Its surface, predictably, is glassy, a leather strap meant to attach it to the face. This particular design is not that of comedy or tragedy, as he’d first expected, but three simple holes that call to mind the pained wail of a cursola. Simultaneously, however, they express nothing at all. It’s simple, so telling just by virtue of _being_ and being unusual, but speaking nothing towards what could possibly lay underneath. There is no ascribed preconception to it; the mask is not angry, is not sad, is not laughing, is not calm. It is all emotions at once, and none at all. It’s everything, all colors of light described at once at a surface judgement, but none of them once all is taken in at once. It is very flashy and a non-entity. 

It’s hiding behind a clear glass block. 

He slips on the mask, and it feels like balm on cracked fingers, sapping away the heat of embarrassment or frustration or fear and leaving behind enough room to _be,_ behind it. Recognizable, but without the risk of becoming truly Known, should it be advantageous to peel away the identity you’ve chosen to seek and restart with the one you were given somewhere along the line. It is your shield as you back entirely out of the mirror and instead look at yourself, young and flawed but trying, marching out to the war of being somebody in the here and now. You _want_ to be here. 

Allister can see his face in the mirror, and nothing behind it. 

He smiles (not that she, nor anyone, for that matter, would know) and hands her back the blackglasses. 

“Do you like it? I thought it might be nicer than slapping yourself in the face now’n then, but still keep the brightest of the lights out… and if anyone asks you, you’re just feeling festive, or somethin’!” 

It’s Opal’s turn to flinch with surprise when Allister turns up in front of her and immediately, brash beyond the time to think and double-think in circles, hugs her. She hugs him back, if a little confused. 

“Yeah. ‘s good. Wanna, a go play outside?” 

“Do I?!” Opal squeals, already running for the doorway.

Allister is right behind her. 

**Author's Note:**

> I am certainly no historian, but I do have a weird-looking search history now. Here are some highlights:
> 
> \- Neon signs were invented in 1910  
> \- Horseless carriages were a thing in the early 1800s, mostly powered by steam, until the Model T commercialized the automobile in 1908  
> \- They did, in fact, have bleachers and stadium seating in the 1890s, but the first modern English stadiums emerged at the turn of the 20th century.  
> \- A great video on the history of lipstick: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6RTM93WlCwg  
> \- Some actual postcards from the early 20th century that I would be 0% surprised to see some random NPC in Ballonlea decide to carry in their cornerstore  
> — https://www.torontopubliclibrary.ca/detail.jsp?Entt=RDMDC-ARTS-PC-107&R=DC-ARTS-PC-107  
> — https://www.flickr.com/photos/vintagehalloweencollector/2969415758/sizes/z/in/set-72157600713983531/  
> — https://www.torontopubliclibrary.ca/detail.jsp?Entt=RDMDC-ARTS-PC-125&R=DC-ARTS-PC-125  
> \- And one from 1945 that I could not NOT put in here somewhere  
> — https://live.staticflickr.com/3170/2967705376_f19eedf0f5_z.jpg
> 
> "Spirits that wander this world are placed into Pumpkaboo's body. They're then moved on to the afterlife. [...] When taking spirits to the afterlife, small Pumpkaboo prefer the spirits of children to those of adults." - Pokemon Sword
> 
> Did it take me 9 doc pages to get to where I actually wanted to go this time? ... Maybe. Do I regret anything? 
> 
> Eh. 
> 
> Have a Halloween special even though it is three days til' New Years (and it still hasn't snowed here!)


End file.
